


Ego Te Absolvo

by SirJosephBanksFRS



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirJosephBanksFRS/pseuds/SirJosephBanksFRS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen goes to be confessed upon his arrival in Bombay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ego Te Absolvo

Stephen Maturin sat in the back pews of  Nossa Senhora da Esperanca in south Bombay waiting to hear the bells toll the half hour, for then it would be time for confession. He was the only soul present.There was something comforting yet fantastic, to be sitting in this supremely traditional Roman Catholic church on the Indian subcontinent, surrounded by the cool and damp stone, built by the Portuguese. The Portuguese had arrived in India three hundred years ago, the church was very old and massive and Stephen felt as though he could be sitting in any large church on the Iberian peninsula, the strong scent of burning beeswax and incense so deeply soothing and restorative to him, reminding him of his childhood.

He had not, as a rule, that much to confess these days. He was far from being a youth and for the most part, scrupulously lived by the catechism. The Benedictines had schooled him well. He was obedient in virtually everything, except for his relations with Jack; except for all of the wonderful things with terrible names that he did whenever he possibly could with Jack Aubrey.

 The first confession he would ever make to confess his illicit relations with Jack would be in Bombay and it would be to an Italian Carmelite father. Stephen was unusually anxious. It was not his sin nor the sinfulness of his actions that gave him pause. He had no shame about what he did with Jack. His apprehension was that it was wholly impossible for him to promise to make any effort to desist and the only thing possibly worse than admitting that fact would be lying to a priest. Nothing in his experience made him think the priest would attempt to extort a promise from him as the price of absolution, not even a promise to merely attempt to desist in his relations with Jack. But still he worried about being denied absolution. He could neither stand to go out the door unabsolved nor to lie and claim he would leave off being Jack Aubrey's lover. Both were impossible for him and so anxiety gripped his gut.

 They had been lovers for seven months, the entirety of their voyage out to Bombay. Stephen's health had improved so dramatically and he could not help but think a significant part of his improvement was because of their lovemaking, as cramped and uncomfortable as they had been in his tiny cabin. If he and Jack were together and friends, he knew there was not a scintilla of a chance that he would ever desist in their relations, as long as Jack remained attached and he could not imagine a circumstance short of death or extreme age that would render Jack Aubrey with no attachment to and no carnal inclination towards his particular friend.

 He saw the priest arrive, a stout middle aged man with dark thinning hair, perspiring in the sweltering heat of a Bombay afternoon. The priest wheezed as he passed Stephen and went into the confessional and closed the door. Stephen rose, entered and knelt, closing the door behind him. He crossed himself.

 “ _In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._ ” The priest said, his Latin being heavily inflected with his native Italian.

 "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven months since my last confession. I have sinned against chastity, Father." Stephen said, in Latin.

 "By yourself or with others?"

 "With others."

 "Once or more than once?"

 "More than once."

 "How many times, my son?"

 "Daily, Father, or very nearly daily for the last seven months."

 "Are you a married man?"

 "No, Father."

 "How long have you been in Bombay?"

 "This is my second day here." The priest shifted his girth in his seat.

 "Did you come to Bombay on an Indiaman, my son?"

 "No, Father, on a man-of-war, a British ship. I am the surgeon."

 "With whom have you sinned?"

 "My particular friend. He is the captain of the ship." The priest was silent for what felt a long time to Stephen.

 "When did these relations commence?"

 "Seven months ago."

 "And before that?" The priest said. " Are you given to paederasty?"

 "No, Father."

 "And your friend?"

 "No, nothing of the sort."

 "Who initiated these relations?"

 "I did." Stephen said. "We both did, but the sin is entirely mine."

 "Is he confessed as well?"

 "He is an Englishman, a Protestant." The priest was silent. Stephen could hear the birds twittering outside.

 "Say an act of contrition with me and then three _Ave Marias_ this afternoon and evening." The priest said finally. "Then pray for these desires to be removed from you."

 "I cannot." Stephen said, straining to keep his voice steady.

 "Why?"

 "Because there is nothing more odious to God than a prayer that is a lie." The priest sighed.

 "Then pray for the volition to pray that the desire is removed from you. Can you do that?"

 "No." Stephen said. His heart pounded hard within him. The priest sighed again and sat there wheezing in the cavernous silence of the empty church. Stephen could clearly hear the rales in his chest without an ear trumpet and from the other side of the confessional. “Poor man,” he thought, “this climate is killing him. His heart must be on the brink of collapse, his breathing is so laboured.”

 "Then, my son, you must pray for guidance of God's will for you. Can you do that?"

 "Yes, Father."

 "Swear to me, my son, that you will pray for guidance of God's will for you and for your friend as well."

 "I will, Father; I do so swear."

 "Then let us say the Act of Contrition together and you shall have absolution." Stephen bowed his head and the age old words filled the confessional. The priest then said “ _Ego te absolvo de peccatis tuis_...” and ended by saying, "Go and sin no more, my son."

 “ _Gratias ago tibi, Pater_.” Stephen said, the weight lifted from him.

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The priest wheezed. "My son?" He said, sounding winded.

 "Yes, Father?"

 "God does not need His children to come and confess to hating bitter gall, for all hate bitter gall. It is far better for you to come and confess the sin you enjoyed than the one you detested, for God is here to give you strength for the former. You need little or none for the latter. Would you be so good as to come and have some cold mango lassi in the rectory with a fellow sinner? I do not have so many penitents with whom to speak the sacred tongue and this infernal heat makes Sicily seem like the Alps in winter. I long for Malta. Perhaps the British will expel me and then I may die in peace, closer to home.”

"With all my heart." Stephen said and they opened their respective doors and Stephen bowed and kissed the ring of the Prelate of Bombay, Father Pietro d'Alcantara di Santo Antonio and they introduced themselves to each other.

"Come to the rectory, my son." The priest said, closing the door of the confessional door and walking slowly, his breath laboured.

"I am, Father, a physician, trained in Dublin and Paris and I cannot help but notice a shortness in your breath. I should be most happy to examine you and prescribe for you, if you so wish."

"You are too kind. I am not so young any more and the climate is so extreme and unhealthy. I should prefer to be in the Mediterranean, but duty calls, eh?"

"How long have you been in India, Father?"

"I have been prelate for twelve years and I was here three years before that."

 

They walked to the rectory and the priest called his serving woman for lassi for them as he sat on his settee and wheezed.

"You have severe asthma, Father." Stephen said. "What physic do you take?"

"Hartshorn and some potion or other." He called the servant and directed her to bring the bottle. She did and Stephen looked at it, smelled it and tasted it. It was oxymel of squill. He put it down.

"Do you have coffee, Father?"

"That is an unseemly luxury that ill befits a Carmelite, Doctor." Pietro d’Alcantara said, smiling. “At least here in Bombay.”

"Surely, Jesus Christ himself would see you healed with coffee if He could not lay hands upon you. You must daily make an infusion of cold coffee and take a cup with four drops of paregoric, four times a day. If you are having an attack, then have your servant make the coffee hot and drink two large cups with five drops of paregoric each. A light diet, but I suppose you already take a light diet. Can you send your servant to the bazaar to buy you some, this instant? I must, I fear, insist that you do.”

 

An hour later, they were sitting drinking hot coffee, made to Stephen’s specifications with the coffee and paregoric bought by the prelate’s servant and he saw the priest’s lips become pinker as his breathing eased and Father Pietro d’Alcantara sat back, looking far more comfortable.

“I have not had coffee in seventeen years.” He said, draining the cup. “It sits so very well.”

“You must have it daily, if you are to serve the Carmelite order beyond the end of this year, Father dear.” Stephen said. “I shall write a letter, if you wish.”

“I am the Prelate.” the priest said. “There is no authority here beyond my conscience and God, of course, for  engaging in this self-indulgence. It is medicine, but I fear I enjoy it too much.”

“Father, dear, not all medicine must be bitter gall,” Stephen said, “Speaking only as a physician, with reference to your consumption of coffee, I say unto you, dear Father Pietro, “ _ego te absolvo_.””


End file.
